


Harry Potter and the Lives and Occurrences of Other People

by kinnoth



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Social Network (2010)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-15
Updated: 2011-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-27 06:54:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinnoth/pseuds/kinnoth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Potter occasionally notices the lives of people more interesting and emotionally developed than him</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in my head, harry's a dick, ron's a conspiracy nut, and hermione's only moderately sane

**Harry Potter and the Lives and Occurrences of Other People**

 

 **[ part i of fuck knows]**

The cheering dies down for _Zooman, Adele_ who skitters her way over to the Gryffindor table wearing an expectant sort of grin. Harry's hands hurt from clapping; yeah, it's exciting and all, new students, new term, seeing all his friends after a summer at the dismal Dursleys', but really, it's just been a long day. His arse hurts from sitting. His pumpkin juice is getting warm.

'Zuckerberg, Mark,' McGonagall pronounces in precise, exacting syllables. Harry sits up on his knee to peer over his housemates' heads so he can get a look at the last first year being called up to the stool. But _Zuckerberg, Mark_ is tiny and thin and very far away. Harry catches a glimpse of a pale face and unkempt hair right before it is nigh swallowed whole by the Sorting Hat when it is placed on his head.

'Come on, come on,' Lee Jordan mutters, practically bouncing out of his seat. It’s been an epic streak of Gryffindor, then Slytherin, then Gryffindor, then Slytherin again for the past sixteen first years. They’re tied dead even, and from across the hall, Harry could see the anxious energy that's vibrating through the Slytherin table as well.

'Just watch,' Ron says into Harry's ear. 'He’ll go to Ravenclaw.' Harry nods noncommittally. He likes getting one over on Slytherin as much as the next proper Gryffindor, but right now he's hungry enough to slaughter and eat his own cow.

'Go Gryffindor!' whispers Neville with a vehemence that is frankly uncharacteristic. Sometimes, Harry wonders if Neville is actually a Hufflepuff that has been grossly misplaced in one of those 'legacy picks' that the Sorting Hat 'definitely doesn't do.'

Speaking of which, the hat is taking an inordinate amount of time with _Zuckerberg, Mark_. 'He’s gotta be muggleborn or something,' Seamus Finnigan leans over and stage-whispers to Dean Thomas.

'How do you figure?' Dean whispers back.

'Because, no way the hat ever takes this long--' though Dean never finds out why, because at that moment the Sorting Hat shrieks triumphantly, 'Slytherin!'

A collective groan overtakes the Gryffindor table, a low undertone to the whooping that breaks out from across the hall. Lee Jordan's fists actually connect with the table, a bit too close to Hermione's juice for her comfort, evidently, as she snatches it up with alarm.

'We’ll get 'em next year, mate,' George and/or Fred Weasley assures his friend, clapping a friendly had to his shoulder. Lee looks like he might cry.

Dumbledore finishes his yearly address with a festive 'whizz, bang, boodle!' and food begins to appear on the platters in front of them. Harry snatches up a serving spoon before the cottage pie has even finished layering itself into its dish. 'I swear the food's always slightly better at the Sorting than any other day of the year,' Ron sighs, loading his plate with pot roast and mash. 'It’s like, who are they trying to impress? It’s not like our educational system offers a whole lot of variety when it comes to school choice. They could serve us vegan tofu lasagne every night and we'd still come here.'

Harry nods, and chews and hears 'accio mac and cheese!' from the other end of the table. Heads duck in unison under hands, though the conversation barely glitches as a casserole flies through the air towards the cluster of first years. There’s a clatter. 'And goooooaal!' someone shouts. 'Who’s boss? I’m boss!'

Harry peers idly over between mouthfuls of potato to see who indeed is boss. It’s a round-faced little first year spooning macaroni onto his plate, chattering animatedly at anyone in a ten foot radius, 'Hi, I’m Dustin, Dustin Moscovitz, what's your name? Isn’t this place the coolest?'

The girl next to him extends her hand politely. 'Hi, I’m Erica. It's nice to meet you Dustin.'

'Awww, look at the firsties making friends,' Lavender coos. 'Aren’t they adorable? Come, Parvati, let's go mother them.' They get up from their seats and squeeze themselves, giggling, in between two tall, blond remarkably similar-looking first year boys.

'Robbing the cradle,' Hermione intones with not a little disdain, which doesn't quite work with her words when she adds, 'They are quite good-looking though. Just look at those jaw lines.'

'They’re eleven!' Ron asserts.

'You say that like it would ever stop our love,' Dean Thomas trills in his best 'I’m-an-enormous-floozy-no-wait-I’m-just-Lavender-Brown' voice. There begins a modicum of chuckling, but it is eclipsed by the laughter that erupts suddenly the Hufflepuff table. The Gryffindors turn and glower at the interruption.

'How rude,' Hermione tsks before daintily prying open her custard tart.

Harry chews on his chocolate eclair as he watches a Hufflepuff nesting ritual with no particular interest. They’re playing ice-breaker games or something, going around to every member of the house and lovingly making sure no first year is left without an upper-form big brother/sister of some sort. There’s a dark-haired boy who isn't joining in though, perched at the very end of the table, pouting miserably into his pudding.

'Hey buddy,' Ernie Macmillan coaxes, approaching him. 'Why the long face?' The boy looks up with enormous, teary eyes. 'First time away from home?' Ernie guesses sympathetically. 'Don’t worry, you're one of us now; we'll look after you.'

It’s as if those words were a pin taken to a water balloon, Harry observes, because the boy explodes into all sorts of bodily fluids then: truly impressive amounts from such a small boy.

'I wasn't supposed to be one of you!' he wails, and then muffling his face in his hands. The noise in the hall dies awkwardly for about ten seconds as everyone turns and waits for drama, but conversations gradually resume as the boy fails to detonate into streamers and fireworks. Ernie rubs comforting circles into his convulsing shoulders, still murmuring soothingly. Harry hears, 'Father said that I wasn't to hesitate when the put the hat on my head, because hesitating is a sign of weakness, but Slytherin had all these snakes and no one was smiling and father's going to be so disappointed in me!'

Ernie frowns. 'Ed— It’s Edward isn't it?' The boy makes some indistinct reply. 'I’m sorry, _Eduardo_ , that's it. Why did you want to be in Slytherin?'

The boy sniffs. 'Father says it's the best house because it stands for ambition and no one ever got anywhere in the world without ambition.'

'I see,' Ernnie replies. He bends his neck, searching, until the boy looks up and meets his eyes. 'But Eduardo, how about hard work? How about being fair to people, and being loyal to your friends? Do you believe in hard work and fairness and loyalty?'

The boy nods earnestly, scrubbing his face in his sleeves, still hiccuping with tears.

Ernie smiles gently. It makes his fat face fatter. 'See? You do belong here. The Sorting Hat has been doing this for hundreds of years, for thousands of first years. Do you think it would have put you in Hufflepuff if it didn't think you were meant to be here?'

The boy shakes his head vigorously, and Ernie continues, 'There now, that's got to count for something, hasn't it?' The boy gives a sort of reluctant nod and Ernie smiles again. 'Have some lovely pumpkin juice and some ice cream. Get some sleep tonight. You’ll feel better in the morning.' The boy sniffles one last sniffle and does what he's told.

The prefects have started gathering the first years to the side of the hall. 'Avoid the rush!' Ron announces, heaving himself up from the table, shoving scones into his pockets as he goes. Hermione follows with a vaguely admonishing air, with Harry lingering a bit behind. Ernie’s still talking to the new boy, smiling encouragingly, but it's the eyes that watch them that catch Harry's notice. It’s _Zuckerberg, Mark_ from the Sorting ceremony, loitering in his seat long after most of the Slytherin first years have jumped up like the eager little vipers they are to join their prefects in the corridor. His eyes are very blue but very opaque, and Harry doesn't once see him blink.

Reptiles in kind, Harry thinks, and goes off to join his friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the Winklevii aren't the same age as Mark & Friends, but shhhh


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the continued narration of harry the douchebag

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a narrator with a black and white view of morality should come with consequences, rowling

**[ part ii ]**

Classes begin and Harry has nothing to do. The muffled half-silence of the library is beginning to crawl under his skin and the stink of fresh ink and parchment simultaneously stings and itches at his nose. He can't even take his broom out for a spin; it's been thunderstoming the past week.

Hermione and Ron are still, presumably, where he left them in the library, where Ron had been going on about 'The systematic regulation on the spread of information' and 'This is exactly why our culture will never operate on a level of transparency that befits a real democratic system.'

('You don't even have anything you want to read in the Restricted Section!'

'Yeah, but it's the _principle_ of it, innit?')

Hermione hadn't been much better, moaning again about the first-years who had been let into her arithmancy class, something about 'lack of respect' and 'no one let _me_ test into arithmancy as a first-year' and 'bloody upstarts, think they can just bust into _my_ class and score better than me on the first assignment.'

So having had enough of that, Harry makes his way back to Gryffindor tower, kicking at his essay as he goes. He'd pick it up, but it's _potions_. Thirty inches, and it's only the second week of school. Just proof that Snape has it out for him _personally_.

Rounding the corner, Harry stops to let whatever idiot it is coming out of the portrait hole not hit him in the face. 'Hi Harry!' Neville greets him, coming out of the portrait hole.

'Hi Neville,' Harry replies. Neville is plump and far too cheery. 'Where you going?'

Neville shrugs on his cloak and fiddles with the hood. 'Oh, just out, you know. Professor Sprout says she's got a whole new inventory this year, and she said I could--'

'That’s great, Neville,' Harry tells him distractedly. Neville’s voice has a tendency to make Harry's brain switch off and start contemplating cheese sandwiches.

'Y-yeah, I guess it is.' Neville's face smiles clumsily. He's still holding onto the portrait's edge, like he's intent on letting in a draught. 'Um,' he says. 'So what have you been up to?'

'Snape's paper from hell,' Harry sighs. 'Can you believe it? _Thirty inches_.'

Neville replies brightly, 'Oh, that was easy! I mean, all it is is a summary of what you remember from last year. If you still have your notes, you can just--'

Gouda on rye, Harry's brain supplies, which comes out of his mouth as, 'Sounds fun, Neville, you do that now.'

'Um. Yeah.' Neville's laugh is awkward and stupid and his eyes dart from side to side. 'I, erm, guess I’ll see you around then?'

The portrait swings shut as he scurries down the corridor. 'Password?' the fat lady asks. Harry rolls his eyes and provides it, privately wondering if Neville’s rudeness is just a result of his having been raised by purebloods, or if he's naturally just a bit of an arsehole. Harry knows _he'd_ never dream of closing a door in the face of a fellow Gryffindor.

'Wait, hey, hold the--' he hears, just as he lets the portrait swing shut behind him. Ah, home, he thinks, making his way down the corridor towards the common room. Warm fires, cushy chairs, the sounds of hushed admiration from all the first-year girls when he stretches himself out on the couch to study, the smell of--

'--Chris, _Chriiis_! Mark’s taken my agrippan tables and he's writing all over it! Make him give it back!'

Harry's peaceful fantasy is interrupted by the shrill sounds of whining first-years. The same ones Hermione had been complaining about, if he's absorbed anything from her arithmancy rants. He rounds the corner into the common room where a group of four of them have sprawled across the carpet, books propped pillows that belong on the couches. Harry feels a twinge of irritation at the sight. He _hates_ it when people put the pillows on the floor. They're hard to use as feet cushions when you know where they've been.

Then he notices the coloured stripes on their ties. Only one of them is Gryffindor. The blond one by armchair wears Ravenclaw colours, and the one propped up against the ottoman is decked in yellow and black. And the one by the fireplace --

'You,' someone hisses next to his ear. Harry turns to see the boy who had followed him in through the portrait hole, shoulders hunched and hackles raised like a startled cat. He's tall and wiry and has a slightly damp look about him, but more importantly, he's pointing to the first-year boy in Slytherin green. 'How did _you_ get in here?'

Lagger McCormic, or something bizarre like that? Harry's not sure he can remember his name, but he approves of where McLagmic is going with this line of questioning. He nods, sagely, to show this approval.

The Slytherin looks up from his chart. 'Me?' he drawls. He’s small and slightly mouse-ish, a head of tight brown curls and thin, quick hands. 'I was let in. How did you get in here?'

McLorger's lips draw back in a snarl. He definitely has an air of something cat-like about him. Harry thinks he might like cats. 'I _live_ here.' Then McJorger's eyes scan the room. Harry follows his eyeline. When they find the Gryffindor in the group, McJagger accuses 'You.' The Ravenclaw knocks the boy with his elbow, and he emerges from where he's ducked behind him. 'You let _him_ in?'

The boy peeks up reluctantly. 'Er, me?' he asks. 'Yeah, I mean, we had this thing we had to work on, and we were closest to Gryffindor Tower so I kinda just...' he swallows. 'Cormac--' That's it! Cormac McLagafrasa _whatever_ '--I’m sorry if we've done something wrong, but honestly, we were just working on this assignment. You know. You.'

The boy pauses. 'Wait, do you even know my name?'

Cormac snorts. 'That’s not the point here, _Justin_ , what you should be worried about here is --'

'It’s Dustin.'

' _Dustin_ then. You should think twice before you get involved with the likes of _him_.'

'He’s got a name too.' Oh, a Hufflepuff in the process of growing a spine. Harry turns to watch the disaster unfold. This boy is slightly taller than the others, his colt legs gangly and drawn up tight underneath him. 'It’s Mark--'

'—Zuckerberg,' the Slytherin interjects, but the Hufflepuff continues. 'And I’m Eduardo, and that's Chris.'

They've attracted something of a small crowd now, fellow Gryffindors both whispering and silent. Harry surveys them, casually, and goes to stand between two worried-looking first-year girls. His presence will reassure them of their righteousness. Which they are full of.

'None of you should be in here,' Cormac continues to insist. 'This is the _Gryffindor_ common room, and it's for _Gryffindors_.'

'You’re a dick.' Harry's smile at his new first-year fans freezes and he whips his head around and finds Zuckerberg staring at Cormac with blank, pale eyes.

'What did you say to me?'

Zuckerberg blinks. 'You heard me,' he says matter-of-factly. 'You’re no better than me. You’re, what, a third year? You’re not even that much older than me. You’re just a dick whose mother probably didn't hug him enough as a baby, or whose dad--'

'You leave my mother out of this!' Cormac's face has taken on a violent red hue, like a pimple squeezed and about to burst.

The girls clutching Harry's arms gasp. One of them whispers, 'Are they going to fight?'

Harry thinks so, as Cormac takes a step towards Zuckerberg. The little snake needs a good thrashing, show him his place, where he belongs--

But then Eduardo lunges to his feet, shouting, 'Leave him alone!' His wand is drawn, some sort of weak, Hufflepuff magic sparkling at its tip.

'Is there a problem here?' Harry turns and finds himself face to face with Oliver Wood, broomstick in hand and dripping with rain. Cormac blanches faster than snow peas in a boiler.

'No,' Dustin pipes up from behind him just as Zuckerberg says, 'Yes.'

'No, there really isn't,' says Chris the Ravenclaw, gathering up his things and with a look, getting the other two to too. Zuckerberg continues to watch Cormac, motionless and creepy. 'We’ll be leaving.'

'Come on, Mark,' Eduardo says, holding both their books under one arm while he tugs at his friend with his other hand. Zuckerberg stands, still staring at Cormac. Cormac stares back, though his eyes have started to redden and water from not blinking.

'You’re no better than me,' Zuckerberg repeats, and then Eduardo drags him out of the room.

Oliver pushes past Harry to tap on Cormac's shoulder. Cormac turns. 'What was that about?' Oliver asks cautiously.

'Someone needs to remind the first-years of the house rules,' Cormac snaps. He storms out of the room.

Harry finds that he agrees. Impertinent twats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually stuck at this point and I can't think of a way around it. It's a problem, I know. :(
> 
> If you're at all inclined, I have (VERY ROUGHLY) written out how [I would like the general plot to go](http://tylesti.livejournal.com/248162.html).
> 
> It's an IM conversation I had with my beta, so it's, again VERY ROUGH, but you're welcome to it if you want to know how this goes/ends.


End file.
